Raising Rockstar

There is a woman in my church I used to admire. She is the wife of one of my classmates from a Bible study class back when I was a pretty young (maybe ~3yr old) Christian. This Other Woman was always polished, graceful – in a way I thought I could never be.

Kings had not accepted Jesus as his savior til a few years back, and my own Bible knowledge isn’t exactly the best (always sucked at memorizing stuff in school, Bible verses were no exception, though I certainly have read and tried to digest throughout my Christian life.)

Periodically I had sought the company of more mature Christians, but was too insecure in my Bible knowledge and how some Christians might view me to approach OW and her husband. They were like the Christian version of the cool kids in school while we were still geeky tweens who hit puberty late.

My hub and I made our careers in derivatives – I figured we were like the modern-day equivalent of the much-hated money lenders in the Bible.

I watched this family from afar for awhile, aspiring to look like they did on the outside (because I foolishly somehow thought it would make Kings and I be  more like them, or at least who I thought they were, on the inside.) I think many of us do that at least a little, without even knowing it. We are a shallow species.

Back then my job was fairly demanding, and I was struggling to manage a younger ockstar’s care and the job and parent/ inlaw expectations. OW was always impeccably dressed; sensible clothes – ballet flats, not-too-low necklines – appropriate yet decidedly un-dowdy. She had long hair. My husband loves long hair. In 7 years together I’m only now growing out my uber-professional very serious work cut.

She was a very good-looking, well-dressed mum.

And – her husband, I knew for a fact, was an enthusiastic Christian. Some days Kings and I nodded off or looked up from messing with ockstar in the baby room to realize the entire sermon was over (fortunately they post it on the web.)

Once, in the baby/ toddler playroom, ockstar wanted a snack. Open Tupperware, attract a curious toddler or two, and when OW peeked in and gently chided her son (being minded by the helper so she could listen to the sermon – unlike me, hanging out in the baby room and struggling to hear the audio above the gabble of toddlers) “Who gave you a breadstick?” I sheepishly owned up. hOh dear, now she knows I feed my only son junk.

Once, I sat about 3 rows behind OW, and suddenly noticed her hands. (I try not to, but in the moms-of-babies area where everyone has an eye on their child that occasionally also roams involuntarily to consider the developmental stage of the other children around them, it seems easier to get distracted. No wonder they make us sit in a separate area in church.)

OW had on a darkish-red nail color (to me the epitome of  high-maintenance grooming  for a mum – I very rarely paint my fingernails because I am chip-prone and then the chips drive me bonkers) and a very ornate precious-stone cocktail ring. I love rings. But I had given them up for the whole first year-and-a-half thereabouts of ockstar’s life because I didn’t have the confidence to wear them and not scar my only child for the rest of his life in a moment of carelessness.

That day, I felt even lousier about myself – I was barely keeping it together. This elegant woman married to a most godly man whose Bible knowledge was amazing could swing two boys and nail polish. AND occasionally host a cell group.

Then I didn’t see them again for some time. One day when I did, I saw something different. She was self-conscious.

For the first time, they were seated close enough for me to greet them after the worship. You know, that time in church when the worship leader traditionally asks us to meet and greet those around us, and some us have to dig deep to get ourselves to move the ol’ facial muscles in a socially appropriate, acceptable way. Even if we’ve stumbled out of bed and made it to church only after their coffee counter has closed for the worship.

As I waved with the familiarity of recognizing her husband from my old Bible study class, I saw the look of suspicion that passed over her face.

(It’s possible I have never even shaken her husband’s hand in all the years we attend the same (albeit large) church. We had one discussion after class, it was from his input that I identified him as a very godly man (who made me insecure in my own ability to keep the faith))…

During the sermon that followed, OW clung to her husband. Her own insecurity made her misunderstand. (My own husband had, as usual, loped off to the baby room with ockstar because he looks forward to weekend bonding after a workweek away on business trips. So I sat alone behind them.)

At one point during the sermon, OW deliberately nuzzled close and rested her head on her husband’s shoulder, then turned around and shot a look straight at me. In that instant, I no longer felt insecure about my own family or marriage.

But when the woman directly behind her started and turned to follow her gaze, I considered changing churches.

I also wondered if anyone expected me to cook a pet rabbit in a pot.

The next time I went to church, I made a point of wearing something especially conservative and as “un-Other Woman-like” as I could <cringe>. And to sit as far away from where I had last seen them sit as I could. And not make eye contact. And………

(I imagine our pastor being so dismayed and disappointed with us if he knew – we’re doing rubbish like this during sermons. But I don’t suppose we usually tell pastors we do things like that.)

How many of us are Other Women?

How often do we fail to see our own blessings for all that effort we put into trying to be someone else? Wishing we were someone else?

There are things that sadly I think only women seem to know how to do exclusively to each other. It is women who judge each other the most. Oh, the head games. All the things we do to ourselves because of all the things we imagine to be going on that are really only happening in our heads.

Years ago, my husband bought me Women Who Think Too Much with nary a hint of irony. It’s one of the things I find sweet about him. I’m yet to read it.

And I still have that hangup about nail polish.

(But I’m working on it. Admitting you have a problem is the first step, right? Um, right.)

This is one of those posts I hesitated to write about for some time. This could easily have applied to any Mummy circle or other social event. Unfortunately, the live example I had happened in church. Christians aren’t supposed to judge. Christians are held to a higher standard. They’re supposed to be charitable, sincere, faithful in the grace they have received.

Oh, haha.

Yup, if you’re a non-Christian, I have an idea what you’re thinking. You see, I used to be one of you. And I agree. Socializing in church is my Achilles’ Heel because I cannot keep from the disillusionment I feel when “other Christians” fall short. And you realize how this is the Mother Of All Ironies because I’m judging, every step of the way…

But you see, Christians are also human. It’s not difficult to love people who are beautiful and lovable. The point is even horrible ones are saved and loved. Think of all the better Christians than ourselves who manage to put up with us.

PS: I could write all fluffy clouds and blue skies and how we love everybody all the time, but no one in their right mind is going to buy that, so like, why bother?

Even as He continues to find creative ways of teaching us stuff.